Time to leave.
He stepped toward the door. “You have a good day, Lord Yourstone. We’ll be seeing each other again real soon.”
And he left.
Malone exited the town house. He’d accomplished what he came to do. Nothing slowed an enemy down faster than the knowledge that someone may be in close pursuit. Especially an enemy who cared about his public image. If nothing else the visit would buy him time to figure out just what was happening here. Yourstone would, at a minimum, be concerned. But coming here also had drawn attention, which nearly always meant trouble.
That was okay.
He was accustomed to trouble.
And the ball needed to stay rolling.
So he found his cell phone and dialed William’s private number, explaining what he’d like for Victoria to do next.
“Excellent suggestion,” William told him. “I shall organize it immediately. As you learned earlier, refusing the queen’s invitation can be difficult.”
He found the sidewalk and started walking back toward the Underground station. He’d take a train to Osborne House and have William arrange a meeting later with the Prince of Wales. He needed to see for himself exactly what he was dealing with.
He thought again of the cauldron from earlier.
That was another subject he’d need to learn more about.
A car braked at the sidewalk, and its rear door popped open. “Mr. Malone.”
He whirled.
An older man sat inside. He was in his early sixties, with a weathered face as round as a full moon. His silver hair was immaculately coiffed. Thick, steel-rimmed glasses hid his eyes. He wore a stylish dark suit with a vest, a silver watch chain snaking from one pocket. The right hand held a walking stick, the handle an ivory globe.
Which he recognized as the trademark of Sir Thomas Mathews.
Head of Great Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.
Or as more commonly called, MI6.
“We need to speak,” Mathews said.
CHAPTER SIX
Yourstone stared through the car’s tinted windows and admired St. James. The quarter was once the haunt of London’s bachelors, and there still remained an air of quality to its regal surroundings. The plush private clubs that currently filled the brick buildings, descendants of 18th-century coffeehouses, were famous. Boodles. Brooks’. White’s. The Carlton. The Oxford and Cambridge Club. Membership commanded high price tags and deep lineages.
Eleanor sat beside him.
The call had come to his town house just after Cotton Malone left. The Prince of Wales wanted to speak with both his sister and Yourstone. Richard had sounded his usual distraught self. Eleanor told her brother that they would come immediately.
Yourstone knew what the buffoon wanted.
A sympathetic ear.
But he also knew what he wanted. And time was running out.
So this opportunity had to be maximized.
The car stopped at a gated entrance. The red-brick edifice of St. James’ Palace had been a wedding present from Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn. In the centuries since it had served as the perennial home of the heir to the throne.
They were allowed inside, and the limousine parked in a courtyard beneath a brick porte cochere. They stepped out into a balmy afternoon and entered the palace, making their way to a closed door on the third floor.
Richard was waiting alone.
Where Eleanor was blond and fair-skinned, her brother was dark-haired and olive-hued. They looked little alike, which had sparked speculation that he was the product of some illicit affair early in Victoria’s marriage. But anyone who even remotely knew Victoria Saxe-Coburg realized that would have been impossible. The queen was absolutely devoted to her husband. Richard had simply been bestowed with far more of his father’s Scottish blood than his mother’s German lineage. Photographs of a paternal grandfather bore a striking resemblance. His handsome face was blessed with features that had become easy to caricature. The Roman nose was the cartoonist’s favorite victim, though his wavy hair and deep-set brown eyes were inevitably overplayed in what seemed a nearly daily ritual of ridicule.
Richard wore one of the snug-fitting, double-breasted suits he’d long popularized. His shirt was a soft shade of pink, the tie red-and-black-striped. A colorful handkerchief puffed from his jacket pocket. He stood in a bay window staring into the room. Eleanor closed the door behind them and stepped toward her brother.
“What is the rush about?” she asked.
“Have you seen the afternoon Globe?”
“I don’t read that titillator.”
“There, on the table. Have a glance.”
Eleanor grabbed the newspaper.
The front page blared a bold headline: IS SHE THE NEXT LADY OF THE PALACE? The color photograph was of Lady Bryce open-mouth kissing the Prince of Wales, while a car waited with its door open. The lens was apparently long-range as the photo was blurry. Lady Bryce was wearing an obscenely short skirt, and Richard’s hand was firmly planted on her shapely ass.
Yourstone had already read the story. Yesterday. After it had been written. He was always provided a preview.
“I’m about at the end of my tether,” Richard said.
“You’re just now coming to that conclusion?” Eleanor said. “Dickie, you stay in the papers. One woman after another. One mistake after another.”
“I want my own life.”
“To do what?”
“What I please.”
There was the defiance Yourstone knew so well. So he twisted the knife. “So you can convert to Catholicism?”
Richard faced him. “Actually, I have a great fondness for that religion. There is no reason for our alienation from Rome.” The prince sighed, his usual signal of resignation. “Why must I be tormented? What purpose is served from that?”
Yourstone seized the moment. “You are a married man and heir to the throne. What you do contrary to both is relevant to the nation.”